


Calculated Risks

by mogwai_do



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:04:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU aftermath of the Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calculated Risks

It was a calculated risk, but then it always was. Pulling the trigger was still the biggest gamble Sherlock had ever taken, not because he was risking his life, but because he was risking John's. It didn’t stop him though, it never did.

As fast as John was, Sherlock was faster, twisting his long body around John's smaller one even as he was being tackled into the pool, protecting his friend from the vicious razor shrapnel that pool tiles apparently became when combined with Semtex. The world was noise and flame and pain for a brief, eternal moment, then there was a breath-stealing impact with the water and everything went abruptly dark.

Sherlock woke with the taste and smell of chlorine thick in his senses; warm, sure hands were on his body seeking out and assessing every one of his lacerations and punctures with practiced efficiency. It meant something, someone, but he couldn’t think. Sherlock had woken hungry and his whole world had dwindled down to that blind instinct and the relief that strayed so foolishly close. Some small part of him recognised the source as his friend, but it mattered not at all to the need that consumed him and then it was drowned out entirely by the sweet, hot rush of blood.

It was only when Sherlock heard the choked and broken sound of his name that the identity of his unwitting victim penetrated the feeding fury, even as the hand that had fisted so tightly in the remains of his shirt grew lax and dropped away. John.

Sherlock’s heart wrenched within his still healing chest, torn between ecstasy and agony; even though he knew he should stop, had to stop, he couldn't. He was torn; he needed John as much as he needed John’s blood. With the faint, sorrowing, logical thought that John had always given him what he needed Sherlock lost himself to the hunger once more.

Even after his wounds had all healed, giving up his cocaine had been nothing next to the self-control Sherlock needed to pull himself away; John was so warm and good and he was Sherlock’s. He lowered John gently to the ground, heedless of the fast-setting mix of plaster dust and water that coated everything. Just as he had had less than an hour ago, Sherlock had a choice; there was always a choice, but in this case it was a simple one. He was and always had been a selfish creature and John, of all people, knew this. He simply couldn’t imagine the soldier, the doctor, the friend denying him this, even at such a cost.

Sherlock leaned forward, curling his body over John's in a way even he recognised was equal parts protective and possessive. It was the work of a moment to slice his tongue open deeply on his own fangs; tradition dictated that it should be his wrist, but Sherlock had never been a traditionalist, and this was John. He pressed his mouth to John's and pushed his bleeding tongue inside, withdrawing only to slice it open again and again each time the cut ceased to bleed. His fingers rested alongside John's throat, stroking gently, encouraging the automatic reflex to swallow. Time slowed, stretched, like the spaces between each of John’s heartbeats, but Sherlock kept going until he was sure it was enough, until he could feel John in a way that had nothing to do with the physical and then he slowly withdrew, pressing a last, soft, real kiss to John's bloody lips.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and for a long moment simply watched John’s still form. There was a certain sick irony in the fact that John had survived Moriarty with barely a scratch, only to fall to Sherlock. But John Watson was a survivor, a fighter; he would always, always fight, any fool could see that. Sherlock just had to hope that John would choose to fight for, not against, this - him. 

With a care usually reserved for his most delicate experiments, Sherlock lifted John into his arms, ignoring the pang of sorrow as John's head lolled bonelessly against his shoulder. It was a small fantasy he had occasionally indulged in; John was so small, so light in his arms, and he would be so very, very furious for it. An unwilling smile crept onto his lips for the quiet hope that John would wake to be furious with him. 

Never one to shy from the truth, however unpleasant, Sherlock still considered the possibilities his actions had spawned: some people remained much as they always had been, some changed irrevocably, some simply... died, through sheer force of will he suspected. He didn’t doubt John had the will, but for once Sherlock had no idea which possibility was most likely and what he would do should the worst come to pass.

It didn’t take long to return to Baker Street, at least not when an anonymous black car rolled up alongside him before he’d even gone a mile, and once back Sherlock laid John carefully on his bed and settled in to wait. He tried not to muss the sheets too much with his occasional impatient twitch; it was absurd, but John could get very irate when his perfectly made bed was wrecked, even if it were for perfectly valid, scientific reasons.

It seemed to take an age, though Sherlock supposed his sense of time might be a little skewed, all things considered. John's eyes snapped open, wide and blind with a hunger Sherlock recognised all too well. There were words he should use before the process was completed, of mastery, of welcome, of binding, but Sherlock just tilted his head as he tugged the remains of his shirt collar away to expose his throat; he needed a new shirt anyway. It didn't take any more than that: John moved faster than he ever had, teeth sinking hard into Sherlock's bared throat.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the sharp, warm rush of feeding, feeling it from both sides in a way he would have to investigate further, if John were willing. Tentatively, Sherlock let his arms curl around his friend in a manner that had never been instinctive with anyone else; for once returning the favour and letting John take what he needed. His fingers spread wide as his hands came to rest in the small of John's back, rubbing tiny circles that soothed him as much as he hoped it helped his friend.

John pulled back reluctantly, far sooner than Sherlock would have expected, but that was John - always surprising. John took a deep, shuddering gulp of air, his breath catching in revelation of a thousand new sensations Sherlock knew he would be experiencing for the first time. Sherlock met John's newly golden eyes unblinkingly, waiting with a patience he seldom had for anyone else.

Sherlock watched as John looked down at his hands, the calluses and the fading tan lines still unchanged, then John’s hands rose to his face, the pads of his fingers pressing against the tips of his fangs, not quite hard enough to break the skin. There was a soft huff of laughter and a wry shake of the head and then John finally met Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock knew his expression was absolutely neutral; his eyes still gold because it seemed pointless to hide it now. He'd perfected his masks over the years, but that had never seemed to stop John from reading him as easily as he himself read a crime scene. Then John reached out a hand, curling his fingers lightly around Sherlock's where they rested lifelessly in his lap and gave them a tiny squeeze.

"Well… That explains a lot," John said, deadpan and unreadable and so very John.

And despite his resolve to wait, to be cautious while John adjusted to the change, Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.

FIN


End file.
